


Stjerneklart

by Conreeaght



Series: Stjerneklart [1]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies), Thor - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - The Witcher, Blood, Frostiron Bang 2014, Loki is a sorcerer, M/M, Possible sex in the future, Strong Language, Tony is a witcher and has long hair, Tony's name is Stridr/Stark here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 14:21:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2550752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conreeaght/pseuds/Conreeaght
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He has been called many names: Stark, Stridr, Ia'rainn Dh'oine – The Man of Iron. He was a witcher, the  highly skilled monster killer. Even though he was the very well trained expert, sometimes he got injured during his hunts. This time he found himself under the care of intriguing, raven-haired man.<br/>That is how he threw in his lot with the sorcerer who had mysterious yet unsettling past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Finally! May I present you FrostIron Witcher AU for the FrostIron Bang 2014.
> 
> I want to thank you to my wonderful and patient artist [allantiee](http://allantieeart.tumblr.com/) and also to [allooooonsy](http://allooooonsy.tumblr.com/) my great beta who saved my life, because I'm not the English native speaker :*
> 
> All the illustrations you'll find here: [tumblr](http://allantieeart.tumblr.com/post/101540959910/my-illustrations-for-this-years-frostironbang) or [Ao3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2587241)
> 
> The Witcher Saga is Polish fantasy written by Andrzej Sapkowski, but it's mostly known thanks the the two video games. I tried my best to give justice to books.  
> If you have any questions about the Saga, just ask :)
> 
> The last, but not least. This fic may seem a little unfinished, because it's only the first part. I'm planning to write the continuation soon, but right now my life and uni duties are calling me. So, I'm sorry.

„ _Va’esse deireádh aep eigean._ _”_

“Something ends and something begins.”

— an old Aen Seidhe proverb

“We look up at the same stars, and see such different things.”

—  George R. R. Martin

  
  


 

  
  


He was falling. Slowly. Inevitably. He felt nothing but cold, the biting cold of everlasting night. He didn't remember when he had experienced the darkness embrace itself. He could  have sworn that he still existed somewhere, but it wasn't that place.  . 

Was that what death itself looked like? 

He didn't want to go.

_Let me stay._

_Let me live._

_I want to exist._

_I need to be alive again._

  
  


_*_

  
  


He gained consciousness, but he didn't feel like he was even awake. He couldn't open his eyes, still heavy from diving into the darkness. A cool breeze caressed his cheeks, lips and closed eyelids. He could smell the crispness of fresh, winter morning, but also a stench of sheepskin, old, rotting food and horse's fresh dung. All of it couldn't suppress the stink of his own unwashed body and blood-covered clothes. He knew that smell very well from his previous life. Since right now he didn't feel very alive. 

It took him a while to concentrate and fight the nausea. Finally he opened his eyes and looked straight into great blue above his head. The sky was almost azure like the sea in the summer. He could have sworn that not so long ago he saw the great water. He could hear the swoosh of surf and smell salt in the air. His eyes followed black dots dancing on the sky. Birds - crows maybe? Or ravens? It was getting harder and harder for him to focus on one thought. His mind was slipping away. The blue was getting darker and darker. The darkness approached with its cold claws...

Suddenly the cart he was laying in, earlier jolting along the bumpy road, bounced on a protruding root and for a short while soared over the surface. He felt sharp pain, sliding from his neck and chest and all through his body, as the squeaking wheels of the wagon heavily touched down the ground. The sheepskin enveloping him slipped down a little so he could now hear the noise of the world. A creaking of leafless tree branches. The clatter of horses' hooves and neighing. Human voices. Talking, shouting and laughing.

He tried to focus on that to bring back his mind from dark places. He picked out three distinct voices.

“... and he danced with his guts out,” said the first voice, male, harsh and breathy as if its owner were taking too much fisstech in his youth. “And the blacksmith's daughter, a real flower, was so grateful sh— ”

“How could you tell, huh, Yrth? Can you tell a girl and a goat apart at all?” asked the second one with a rather unpleasant tone. It also belonged to a man. The kind of man who only needed any small excuse to draw a sword or a dagger. The worst kind of shit.

“I tell you, Redd, you fucker,” Yrth sounded highly put out. “I caught 'er after the dance right behind the barn and she picked up all her skirts for me. She's soft and nice to fuck. She made those funny squeaking noises,” he cackled, and his companion echoed him with an ugly, neighing laugh.

“So you can tell apart a girl and a sow, good for you,” the third voice joined them. It sounded younger, right after breaking.

The men fell silent for a little while. He could hear only the sound of hooves on the road and creaking of wheels beneath him. 

“Don't try to be funny,” barked Yrth and the feeble moan could be heard right after a louder slap. “You will joke with adults when you get yourself a woman and fuck her properly. Oi! Boy, are we there yet?” he addressed another person.

“Almost, sirs.” The fourth voice could only belong to a child, a young boy who felt rather uneasy in the company of three rouges.

“We’d better be,” muttered Redd. “I don't like this road. Ain't they saying this swamp is haunted or something?” He sounded scared. Actually, all three men seemed to be unsure, like they were trying to hide their own terror from their companions.One of the horses snorted as if his rider had drawn in the reins too much.

“Yeah, who knows what phantoms wander here. Hoick!” Yrth spat nervously. “Can we just dump him somewhere for peace and quiet? None'll know and he's already as good as dead...”

Who were they talking about? Him? 

I'm not dead, damn it! He opened his mouth to shout out, but only a small moan escaped his lips.

He tried to get up, but he couldn't. He wanted to move just a little under the sheepskin, but he wasn't able to. He felt heavy, as if his body were made of stone. He managed to turn his head a little and then the pain, radiating from his neck, filled his chest and torso once again. He gave up right after that and tightened his eyelids which were still fighting against the aching. He didn't, however, stop listening to the conversation which was certainly concerning him.

“The un... the alderman will lash us,” protested the youngest man. “He put in some gold for him, nah?”

“Ain't you a little knight, eh, Pavo? You take care of your uncle's business?” Redd barely controlled himself. His voice got angrier and angrier with every word he said. “Wait till I get off the saddle and bow to you, you little shit!” He harked and spat with contempt on the ground.

“Oi, oi, boys. Shut up.” Surprisingly, it was Yrth who tried to calm his colleagues.

“No way. The old man paid this fucking freak some gold. And what we've got? Two lousy pieces of silver. For helping... this... this thing... Let him rot in the swamp. None'll ever find the fucker.” Redd was gabbling so quickly and loudly that he scared away birds sitting on the roadside trees. The animals rose from the branches, croaking.

“We can't do tha—” Pavo tried to be more tenacious, but it came out with poor results. Redd was tougher and more steadfast. The scare and maybe a little bit of greed got the upper hand over him.

“The old man paid you more for gabbing like a pussy?”

“No, but—” 

“Then shut you pretty face, you little twat!”

One of the horses neighed and squealed loudly when his rider halted him violently.

“Youtwo/Both of you! Shut your pie holes.” Yrth finally lost his patience. “I've got a plan. Now you listen. We'll leave him at a/the healer's and ride off. That way we'll fulfill our orders. As a payment we'll take all his things. They'll sell pretty well and then we'll share the gold between the three of us. Deal?”

The man sounded very confident with his idea. Redd agreed right away. Even Pave said yes after a moment of hesitation. The rest of the way they spentrather quietly/mostly in silence. 

He was just lying there on the wagon, contemplating his fate. Maybe he was as good as dead? He couldn't move, even though he was itching to grab his sword and wipe out those swines right away. If only he could lift his hands and reach his weapons. They had to be somewhere near him... 

He gasped, feeling really weak. He thought he would be able to withstand a little longer, but the darkness was calling his name again. He almost felt its claws at his throat.

The cart was rolling like the world around him. And he was drifting in the darkening mist. He felt like he was drowning. Thick and dark...

“Sirs, we're here.” The boy's voice, echoing under his skull, was muffled, deformed

“Only a loony could live in a place like this...”

“This is where the Master lives, sirs.”

The Master? Who was the...

He blinked a few times, but he couldn't stop the fatigue that fell on him. He felt tired. He just wanted to sleep for a little while...

And so he finally did.

 

*

 

It was a beautiful morning.

The sky was crystal blue and the sun, hung low above the horizon, shined bright, almost spring-like.

He went outside the tower wrapped tight with a warm, thick coat. He turned the dark furred collar up and brushed his raven-black hair off his forehead. It grew too long, he noted. It needed to be trimmed. He hadn't done that for some time, too busy with studying and restoring some old volumes which he had found in a secretcompartment under the tower. He thought about selling the books if his middleman in the capital city would reply to his letters.

The snow crunched under his heeled knee-high boots while he was walking through an alley, barely noticeable under the white, gleaming in the sun’s power.

The Yule season was coming to an end yet he could smell the approaching snowfall, a snowstorm if he wasn't mistaken. He inhaled the frosty air and let himself smile a little. The winter always lasted longer here in the North, but it didn't bother him much. Unlike his old friends from the Empire, he enjoyed winter. He liked snow and a touch of frost on his skin as well, as his little strolls.

He passed a ruined castle wall and entered a courtyard. At this time of year it seemed to be desolate and empty with leafless trees and bushes covered only with snow and icicles jingling in the wind. Even birds abandoned this place and flew off to the southern, warmer lands.

He might love winter, but he also missed springtime. He almost could feel the emerald green grass under his feet, smell the scent of blooming trees and hear luscious, almost malachite green, leaves murmuring around him. He easily imagined a walk surrounded by white, light and dark pink petals swirling and dancing in the air.

The spring here, in the North, was truly beautiful, unlike his homeland where summer arrived too fast. It was too hot for his taste, too sultry, too unsettling. The Empire never was his home, not for real, even though he spent many years of his life there. Too many.

He moved further, traversing the courtyard slowly. He checked every tree carefully. He whitewashed them and covered them with bundles of straw to protect them from rodents. He smiled wryly at himself. Who would have thought that one of the most powerful Nilfgaardian magi ended up here, in the North and became a gardener. He probably would have been ridiculed by his colleagues, but he ceased to care a long time ago. This place, this courtyard and the tower, calmed him down and let him forget about many things that had happened even before Nilfgaard. He still sometimes dreamed about those dreadful events, but not as often as earlier. The nightmares became weaker and weaker with every soul he helped to heal, with every broken arm he set.

He stopped and clenched his fingers on the bridge of the nose. What made him think about all of it again? He should focus on the here and now. He was safe here. No-one would ever find him. He assured himself about that many times and almost started to believe it. 

He sighed softly. He hated himself for this. For dwelling on the past he tried so hard to forget. For now on he should take care of more urgent and mundane matters. If he worked hard enough every day, then maybe, just maybe, the dreams wouldn't come back and all bad memories finally would fade away.

He roamed along the walls, inspecting thoroughly to see if the hard frost setting in for many months hadn’t worn away any bricks in the weakest points of the construction.

It was a very old place, built centuries ago by an Aen Sidhe prince. Only elves were able to erect something permanent enough and beautiful at the same time. In the past this place was a work of architectural art. Humans tried to copy this unique style over the years with notable results, but their buildings weren't perfect. They lacked gentleness and magic.

The wizard learned the history of his current solitude only thanks to the old books he had found in the dungeons.

The last ruler of this castle and surrounding lands was killed together with his family and servants right after men had come to the Continent. It all had happened during a long, enfeebling war between humans and elves. It was time of pure hate, racism and xenophobia, which had never truly died. It remained till this day, as he had personally found more than once.

Some information he obtained in nearby villages. For many years locals passed the ruins with fear, believing it was haunted by the ghosts of former residents. The elven king, who supposedly was also a warlock, was said to have cursed his own land, altering it into deadly swamps with no way out.

The swamps surrounded the castle indeed. They were also very dangerous, but he wasn't fearful. He created a safe passage using the Force. Only some of the outsiders knew the route through poisonous fumes and unstable bogs. Of course during the winter the ground froze over and even men on horses could travel this road safely.

He also wasn't superstitious. Although he was a wizard and had seen many strange things in the past, wonderful and scary beasts or magical events, he didn't believe in ghosts. Many unusual, unnatural beings had found their way through the Spheres and were trapped in this dimension during the Conjunction, but it hadn't been the spirits of dead, that was for sure.

When he had moved here, he had personally scared away some ghoul-like creatures creeping in the ancient tomb hidden in the remains of the castle garden. However he never had come across anything remotely resembling a specter. 

When he had turned this place into his home, the locals’ fear stooped and they came to visit him, looking for help, treatment and medicines. He worked so hard to make it a haven for himself. Maybe it wasn't perfect, maybe he had lived his previous life in better conditions, but it was far from the world, it was safe and his own. Here he had everything he needed to lead a peaceful and rather comfortable life.

Carefully he touched the wall with a hand gloved in a thin, dark leather, and smiled, sensing a trembling presence of spell he had cast on previous Belleteyn. Everything looked and felt just fine; it should hold for another year or two. Nevertheless he decided to take care of repairs before the next winter.

He twitched, shaken from his thoughts. He had the impression he heard something quiver right behind his back. Dried leaves were rustling on bushes even though a gale subsided last night and the morning weather was windless.

He turned swiftly, rising his hand with gentle yet skillful gesture and opened his mouth to shout out a paralyzing spell.

He halted halfway.

Through creaking, covered with snow, branches, a huge wolf was sneaking gracefully. The sparkling snowflakes fell onto on a thick, silver fur while the animal came closer and nudged the man with a triangle-shaped muzzle.

“Welcome, Fenrir,” he greeted the wolf with a smile. “The hunt went well, I can see.”

The beast barked softly when the wizard tucked his fingers in his fur and shook the snow off his head and neck.

He had treated Fenrir more like a person and a good friend than a mere animal almost since the day he had found him about two summers ago. During one of his walks he had discovered a body of a she-wolf among the trees. It was sad and disgusting. Someone had shot her with a crossbow. Only humans used that kind of weapon and were cruel enough to kill a mother with a litter. She had probably only tried to protect her cubs, now lying dead. He had decided to bury the animals, but when he’d moved the wolf body, he’d heard a pitiful squeal. Much to his surprise, he had found the only cub that had survived the massacre. It had been barely alive and hadn't had any strength left to fight him or break free when he had taken it in his arms, and only whined loudly when he wrapped it with his coat.

He had taken the cub with him to the tower and had dressed its wounded little paws and fed it, trying to save its life. He truly had thought that his small patient wouldn't survive, but it had been stronger than it looked. 

He had called the cub Fenrir and let him stay at his home. The puppy hadn't been scared anymore and had liked to follow him around all the time.

Fenrir grew up to be a magnificent male wolf, beautiful and very smart. He was the wizard's faithful companion. Sometime he headed to the woods for hunting and then disappeared for many weeks, but he always came back to him, like today.

“Come.” He patted Fenrir's head gently. “I need to finish this round.”

He set off slowly, leaving the wolf behind for a short while, but the animal caught up with him and followed him to the old garden, trotting after him.

They walked slowly among the bushes and trees. The wolf managed better with stepping on the snow. He moved much faster and steadier than the wizard who was using simple spells to clear the snow from his path. Finally they reached an old, withered tree. Many centuries ago it had been a huge oak with a large trunk and dense branches proudly reaching the sky. Now, however, it was a dead reminiscence of the old and better times.

The wizard slipped off the glove from his hand and carefully placed it on the lifeless, brittle bark. He smiled, the corners of his mouth barely rising. A familiar warm feeling seized his body, sharpened all his senses for a short while as the Force surged through his veins. Drawing from the source could be addicting, but mortal flesh was too weak, too fragile to take more than a bit, so he had to stop. He backed out slowly, severing the connection, almost bowing before the old tree.

Fenrir, standing behind him, barked really unhappily. He was behaving almost like he wanted to run away, but faithfulness kept him close to his master. He tucked his tail between his leg, waiting for the wizard.

“Do not act like a ninny,” sighed the wizard. His companion was truly scared of this particular place and tried not to come too close to the tree when they were taking walks together.

He stroked the wolf's neck soothingly till his friend calmed down.

“Good boy. I am sorry. I know you do not like it, but it was necessary,” he apologized as they walked away from the oak.

Finally the wizard finished strolling and, with Fenrir at his side, headed toward the tower.

Everything seemed to be in order. He could go back to his laboratory and work in peace. His telescope needed to be repaired and some villagers waited for a new batch of medicaments.

He stretched and inhaled the fresh, icy air. It became colder after the northern wind got up.

The flock of the crows, cawing warningly, flew out of the trees growing near the road leading to his retreat.

“Who would know, Fenrir, we are going to have guests,” he mumbled and went around the tall building to reach the main entrance. He climbed up one granite step and glanced in the distance. He didn’t have to look very hard to see three raiders with a cart following them. At the head of this bleak procession a small figure was approaching really fast.

“Master! Master Loki!” he heard a childish voice as a young boy almost ran into him, losing his momentum. He caught the child firmly.

“Welcome, Pietro,” he said, letting the boy go. “How is your sister?”

“She's fine, Master.”

Pietro ran almost with lighting speed, but his breath wasn't even short. He was always in a hurry and even now he was talking very fast, dropping the endings of words.

“There's men, who want to see ya, Master.”

“They are, Pietro,” he corrected him. He liked Pietro and as a teacher of all the children in the village he wanted them to improve.

“Now, tell me about those men,” he asked.

“I don't like 'em,” muttered the boy under his breath. If Pietro didn't like someone, it must have been for a reason. He decided to trust the boy with this one and stay on his guard.

The wizard wanted to ask Pietro more about the men, but didn't manageto do it. The raider passed a low wall, separating the old elvish estate from the road and the swamp, and rode into a small yard in front of the tower. The cart, driven by a son of avillage elder, rolled in right after the horsemen. Its wheels were creaking dreadfully, even after it stopped.

He felt a growing displeasure, but also anxiety. It was alarming that strangers so easily obtained access to his retreat. Their presence was highly unwelcome. He thought he could trust the villagers and they should have known that he didn't wish anyone on his land without him knowing first. 

He glanced at the unwanted guests, trying to guess with whom he had to deal with. The three riders on exhausted, scared horses and one wagon covered with a thick, linen sheet and pulled by a roan gelding. The cart was followed by a spare, unsaddled horse. It looked far from any ordinary draft horse. It was a real steed, dun-coloured and truly beautiful. This animal didn't suit the men before Loki's eyes. 

He didn't like the horsemen’s appearance at the first sight. The second one was even more alarming.

All three men were carrying swords, none of them, however, bearing any resemblance to a knight nor a simple soldier. The two of them, the eldest, looked like mere swashbucklers, brawlers. The biggest of them, face hidden behind a hood, had a small, loaded crossbow on his back. Their companion, the younger man, was actually just a boy, still wet behind the ears. He girded his sheath in the wrong way.

The giant man slipped off the hood, uncovering a pockmarked face.

“Oi, you! Are ya a healer?” he asked with a harsh, unpleasant voice. He had to be the leader.

Loki didn't even twitch, gazing at him calmly.

“You could say that.” He nodded.

“Are you or not?!” spoke the other thug angrily and clenched his fingers on his sword hilt. It wasn't a good sign.

The wizard raised his hands peacefully. The men didn't know that the same gesture could easily kill or paralyze them if he were more generous.

“If you are in need of a medic, then you are in a good place, kind gentlemen,” replied Loki. 

“How can I help you?” he continued slowly as if he was talking to a child. He seemed to be calm, but stayed focused. Those men could act and speak poorly, like commoners, but they were dangerous, but for some reason desperate and anxious. The worst of all combinations.

“We've got an injured man on the cart,” said the pocked face and dismounted his horse.

Loki grimaced slightly. Treating yet another hoodlum was just waste of time and his precious magic.

“I am not interested,” he replied shrugging his shoulders. “But you are lucky. Not far from here lives Babushka. Maybe she will help your friend.”

“He ain't our friend!” The smaller thug interrupted him. He sounded irritated and a little bit insecure. That wasgood. The more afraid they were, the faster they would leave.

“We found him in a ditch near the main road,” snapped the thug with a crossbow. “We're good-hearted, so we brought him here. The villagers said you're earning your living doing this. Take him and heal!”

Loki sensed the lie right away. He glanced distrustfully at the wagon.

“Very well. Fine. I take a look at him, but that is it. Nothing more. Are we clear?” He saw the anger in the eyes of the elder men. The youngest of the three looked scared. 

Not caring about the men's feelings, he descended the stone steps and headed to the cart. He still was on guard. Life had tried him sorely before and now he knew better not to trust any people, especially those like these three. The wagon could be equally well a smart trap, even though his scanning spell didn't show anything suspicious. He couldn't be sure, however, who was lying in wait inside. Maybe an enemy, a bounty hunter or maybe a real injured person.

He drew back the sheet carefully and then moved away swiftly. A stench of unwashed-for-many-days body made his eyes water. It mixed with an odour of clotted blood and the sour smell of a sick man's sweat.

The injured man had to lie in here for many days. He doubted if he was still alive or would live much longer in those conditions.

Loki covered his mouth and nose tightly with an emerald green scarf and after that he slipped inside under the sheet. For a short while he struggled with an old and stinky sheepskin, but managed to move it aside, expecting to find a cold corpse underneath. To his surprise the man was very much alive. He was pale as death itself, but was still breathing. His chest, covered with sticky, browned rags, was raising and going down slowly, but evenly. It was the first good sign.

The wizard took off his gloves to check the man's pulse. It was too slow and barely perceptible. He moved closer and leant over the still body. He had to take off the scarf to use his other senses. He couldn't smell the rotting stink of gangrene, which was good too.

He carefully moved his hand closer to the unshaven face to part the man's eyelids. He did it as gently as he could and then he froze in complete shock. He blinked a few times but nothing changed. It was nothing like what he had expected.

An amber iris with a vertical, cat-like pupil. It was an unusual shape for a human eye, which meant the man was something more. Much, much more. The wizard had only read about it and never in his life had he seen one. This man was a witcher! Something very extraordinary and rare in this world. And he had it in his hands, served almost on a golden plate.

Loki felt the wounded man's chest and around him, but couldn't find a symbol of his guild nowhere nearby, just as other marks of his profession. He knew he wasn't mistaken and this man was more than mere human. The lack of his personal things was, however, alarming.

Finally he crawled out from behind the linen sheet and jumped down from the cart. The ground underneath his feet started to freeze a little.

Sliding on the path, he turned to the thugs.

“So, he ain't survive?” asked the pock-faced man with hope clear in his voice.

“Oh, he will live, I can assure you,” replied Loki, coming closer to the horsemen. “Whoever dressed his wounds, although without medical skill, also helped to stop the bleeding. His natural abilities also hel—”

“There's nothing natural in this... this thing!” an enraged scream escaped from the shorter bandit's lips as he clenched his fingers stronger on the hilt, looking like he wanted to draw the sword.

The wizard frowned. So that how it was. The thugs knew exactly who and where they were carrying. Someone had probably paid them to do it.

“Redd!” the leader snapped warningly and then looked at the wizard. “We leave him here, yea? And then we go. No harm done.” He got on the horse’s back quickly.

“Pavo, take the hack,” he added, glancing at the younger man.

Loki squinted at the three thugs, scrutinizing their behaviour. They didn't come for him, but they definitely acted strange.

He turned to Pietro hanging around the tower.

“Pietro, take Fenrir and go inside,” he said. “Go and do not touch anything. Now!” he urged the boy who clearly wanted to protest.

He waited until Pietro would disappear inside the building and after that came back the hoodlums gearing themselves up to leave as soon as they could. The young man, who they called Pavo, was carrying the reins of the dun-coloured spare horse.

“Excuse me, kind sirs,” he addressed them politely with calm smile.

“Yeah?”

“You carried out your task well, but my service is not for free.”

“We won't pay for some stray dog found on the edge of the road, yeah.” The nervous one truly waited only for the opportune moment to draw his weapon.

“I do not want much, gentlemen,” smiled Loki. “Would you be so kind and just hand me the witcher's belongings?”

“How? Wha—” All three men looked pretty shocked that he had discovered their little secret.

The smaller one finally yielded under the pressure and took the sword out of the sheath/unsheathed the sword.

“Ya'll take nothing, little fuck.” He charged at the wizard with his blade raised.

Loki's eyes from greyish-green became more vivid, almost emerald, when the magic filled his body surging through his veins to his hands.

The thug's chestnut horse reared up, but his owner managed to calm the animal down.

“You fuck— ” The rest of the sentence got stuck in his throat when the wizard moved his fingers gently.

“Now. The witcher's belongings,” repeated Loki, eying his companions attentively.

“Ye-yes, sir!” Pavo dropped the reins of the spare horse. 

The pockmarked leader wanted to stop him, but the young man threw an oblong bundle on the ground. They heard the sound of metal clacking and the cracking of the glass.

“Is that all, boy?”

“Yessir!”

“Oh, I know you are lying,” murmured the wizard, moving closer. “Where is the witcher's medallion?”

Pavo gulped. “I dunno. Yrth was the first to rummage in his things!”

Loki turned to the leader, but the man said no word, only hurled something silver at the wizard. The pendant, rattling loudly in the overwhelming silence, landed just near Loki's boots.

“Thank you,” he raised the corners of his mouth, flashing his teeth like a predator. “Now, sod off out of my land!” He waved his hand, releasing the spell.

The thugs, all them, drove their horses and were off as fast as their legs could carry them.

Loki heaved a sigh of relief and relaxed more when he couldn't see the horsemen any longer He lowered his hands slowly, releasing the excess of magic back into the air and letting it sink into the ground under his feet and surrounding flora.

His body calmed down and his eyes faded into greyish-green.

“Pietro, my dear, you can come out,” he called the boy, who immediately stuck his head out through the door.

“Yes, Master?”

“Be so kind and take care of this beauty.” The wizard slowly approached the dun horse. The animal neighed, but let Loki touch his nostrils. “Good boy.” He petted the horse to calm him and after that he turned to Pietro. “There should be some place in the stable next to Sleipnir.”

“Yes, Master!” The boy caught the reins and took the hack to the small building at the other side of the tower.

The wizard had a peek at the cart and its horrified coachman who sat on the box with an unmoving gaze.

“You there! Are you awake? Come and help me with this one!”

“Ye-yessiree!”

The man almost fell off his seat and, still shaking a little, helped Loki to carry the unconscious witcher into the tower.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has been called many names: Stark, Stridr, Ia'rainn Dh'oine – The Man of Iron. He was a witcher, the highly skilled monster killer. Even though he was the very well trained expert, sometimes he got injured during his hunts. This time he found himself under the care of intriguing, raven-haired man.  
> That is how he threw in his lot with the sorcerer who had mysterious yet unsettling past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the illustrations you'll find here: [[link]](http://allantieeart.tumblr.com/post/101540959910/my-illustrations-for-this-years-frostironbang)

_The 1_ _st_ _day of Imbolc, 1267_

 

_Somewhere in the South, but not so far from here, the flames of war are raging at this exact moment. None is safe, yet perhaps maybe all these fights, all these battles shall never reach this region. Not too soon at least._

_Pietro didn't bring any useful news, but he is nothing but young boy, he may not know anything. I was hoping he would repeat something heard from the adults. I am afraid it was only a vain hope. I cannot expect the villagers to know any information concerning the most current location of troops. They probably are not aware that they live and work so close to the battlefields. Who else, if any besides me, is interested in the actions and decisions of the crowned heads and first of all of the wizards like myself? As long as the troops do not trample crops, do not burn down houses and woods, do not steal and rape, the villagers will always believe that they are safe. But they are not. None is safe anymore._

_Once again my thoughts lost their way and my writings went not where I wanted. War awakens my worst memories. I dreamt about Cintra last night. I woke up disgusted with myself. Again..._

_Yet that was not what I wanted to write down tonight._

_The third day is passing since the witcher landed under my care. His state of health barely changed; his condition is almost critical. Someone, supposedly a barber-surgeon or self-taught healer, tried to stitch him up using a linen string. They could equally have used the binding twine. Luckily for the witcher some other person decided to find some proper healer. I doubt it was me. I am guessing that he should have ended up in the nearby Melitele temple, but his state significantly worsens. Those three thugs were truly in a hurry to get rid of the burden, however not the witcher's belongings. Their greed was their undoing. For me it was pure luck. To see a living, breathing – even barely – witcher is a rare occasion. I have observed him a lot in the past few days. His body is burning up with a fever caused by infection. I re-opened the wounds and stitched them up again. I need to prepare new elixirs, but some of my plants, like scarix and reachchuster, are not ready yet. Maybe in a few days they shall be ripe enough and my patient shall be still alive. I must hope. The witcher is pretty fortunate to be still alive and that the blood poisoning and gangrene did not set in. This surely has to be his natural ability to heal that I have read about. This is the only explanation. The book mentioned many other interesting... things. I regret that I did not take it with me from my study before I... left. I could compare every piece of information with the real subject. Who, however, could have foreseen that I would meet a true witcher in this place that is forsaken by all gods?_

_And right now I have this fascinating case lying on the pallet in the chamber next to the kitchen._

_Right now I truly regret that a vivisection would be problematic in his current situation, however, if the state of his health does not improve, the only thing I could do would be to shorten his agony, and after that use his body. At this point I have to be patient and wait._

_I should not think like this. I should fight my nature stronger. I have done many bad deeds in the past, so let this be one more thing to redeem myself. I might want to cut him open, just like my colleagues at the university would want to check his internal organs or examine the mutations and magical interference at a cellular level. I might want that too much, yet I shall help him, I shall heal him. Still, I can make my own observations and examine his belongings, make some notes for my own future reference, as I probably shall never write and publish any new treatises. I resigned myself to the fate of my academic career while was slitting the throat of the general._

_Yet. Returning to my previous observations._

_I have done everything I could to help the witcher, at least at the moment. He was badly wounded, yet his injuries heal faster since I have removed the old stitches and replaced the dressing. The pupillary light reflex is correct as for cat-like eyes like those. Unfortunately the witcher still has not regained consciousness. It could be some kind of healing trance. It is notable. I did not come across any information concerning witchers._

_The time has come for me to check my plants and replace the witcher's bandages. Approaching night could be special and change many things. The magic is more perceptible than last year on Imbolc day. I can feel it too well. Maybe it would help the witcher and me as well. Hopefully the Wild Hung shall not arrive, because this year I might not be strong enough to resist the call._

 

Loki put black quill pen to an inkwell and looked at the parchment page covered with his notes. His journal was changing into something he feared and was trying to avoid –a diary of an embittered hermit. He slammed down the leather-covered notebook and hid in a chest standing by a foot of his bed.

With every word, every sentence, his memories started to wake up, to haunt him once again. He dreamed about the past a lot, but reliving everything, once again daydreaming, truly was making him anxious. He could use some more work. Maybe if he buried himself in books or started an experiment, it would somehow help him to forget. As it always did.

He got up from the table, deciding to leave all his drama behind. His black fur coat jumped into his hands at once, when he had called it. It wasn't that far to his winter garden where he kept all his herbs and other useful plants, but he had to go outside to get there and the winter had decided to come back, so it became cold and frosty again.

He donned the coat and left for the stable where the entrance to his greenhouse was hidden. On the way there, Loki visited Sleipnir and his dun companion.

The black horse welcomed him happily with neighing.

“I brought you something, my beauty.” The mage stroked the horse gently on his nostrils and passed him a small apple. “I have the same for you,” he said calmly, looking at the other animal.

The dun-coloured horse was very shy and always hid in the corner of his box.

“How are you?” asked Loki, holding out a hand with an apple, and the steed accepted the treat suspiciously. When he tried to pat him, the animal snorted and withdrew to his corner.

“Fine,” sighed Loki. “I shall come to you later.”

He made a complicated gesture and a small door appeared behind the log pile. Maybe he was too cautious, not all the plants were that rare or dangerous. But it was something he had learned while running. It's better to be safe than sorry, and he preferred to be the former.

 

*

 

He worked hard for many hours. It helped him to escape from all the ugly and unhealthy memories that were haunting him. He succeeded in distilling an extract from young leaves of crow's eye. He still needed ranog to mature more before making the healing ointment. He could now treat his patient properly.

He changed his working robes to something more comfortable and went to check on the witcher.

The man was still unconscious, which wasn't that bad. His injuries were very serious, so if he awakened, he would also be in so much pain. 

Administrating the new medicament and replacing the bandages took Loki only a few moments.

As long as the witcher was sleeping so deep, he didn't have to be delicate. He only had to be careful not to tear off the stitches he had knitted so intricately on the tanned, scarred skin.

Loki looked at the witcher, curious. He was a handsome man, even covered with wounds and bruises. He touched gently the fighter's grizzled temples and looked at his face, too young to fit that white-as-snow hair; it must have been caused by all the mutations he had experienced in his childhood. And it was magnificent. The witcher was a truly extraordinary creature, indeed.

He gave the sleeping man a small smile. Either he would live or not, it had been a good challenge for him as observer and researcher.

It has been a good occasion to examine more. He waited to satisfy his curiosity about the witcher's belongings he had saved from miscreants' hands.

He left the witcher and came up to the table, where he had put the equipment. Till now he took care only for his patient, but these things attracted him from many days.

He ran his eyes over each and every object. Everything lay as he had left it there. Two swords lying parallel next to each other. A dagger and a bundle of personal things and clothes. A leather pouch with coins jingling inside. A small chest decorated with three different kinds of wood and a short inscription.

“Stridr,” murmured Loki to himself, reading letters barbarically carved on the inlaid lid. Was it the name of the owner? The witcher's name? It was better than calling him 'witcher' all the time.

He looked at the case once again. Something important had to be hidden inside, because the box was closed with a complicated lock. Loki could easily break it down with one simple spell, but he had the feeling it was unbecoming to open it without the owner's consent, so he left it untouched.

Without hesitation, he reached out for one of the swords to examine it closely. Its cross guard seemed to be very simple, almost mediocre, so Loki pulled out the blade partially from its sheath. He wasn't a specialist, but he could recognize Mahakaman well-balanced work. Yet it wasn't as interesting as the second weapon, because it was smaller and curved like elvish. He seized for it and drew the blade from its encrusted scabbard with one fast move. Flames flashed on the silver blade. Loki looked at it, mesmerized. He hadn't seen anything like it in a long time. True work of craftsmanship. 

He put the sword on the table and touched its decorative handle, a little curved and lacking of cross guard. Carefully, he moved his fingers over ricasso engraved with a more decorative version of dwarvish runes.

“The Heartbreaker,” he read out loud, frowning. Someone had a strange sense of humour. 

He hid the sword back in its sheath. Those silver blades carried by witchers were always famous. Poets wrote about them. Troubadours sung about them. People thought they were enchanted, but it was only silver, deadly dangerous and poisonous to many creatures. To monsters.

Loki wanted to leave, but something else attracted his attention. He turned back to the table. The silvery medallion was still there, lying enmeshed in some clothes, reminding him who the witcher truly was. A monster killer. 

The magical pendant could easily give away his secret and expose him.

Loki didn't even dare to touch it with bare hands, so he left the accursed object where it was.

 

*

 

_I know who you are. I know what you have done, son of Laufey. I know what you are._

The king with his huge wolf head growled at him, baring his shiny, sharp as knives, fangs.

Loki looked only at his own, hated reflection in the huge, silvery eyes. He wanted to protest, but his lips were sewed together. He wanted to run away, but he was bound with ice shackles, which were scalding his skin. He started tussling, but he couldn't break the ice around his body. The more he struggled, the louder wolf's head laughed and derided him.

 

He woke up suddenly, feeling like he was stifling. He struggled, fighting with the thick furs that had covered him during the night. Only when they slipped from him onto the floor and he couldn't feel their burning weight, could Loki breathe again.A nightmare like this was the last thing he had expected. It might be the time of the year when the Wild Hunt was roaming the world, but it was rather the fault of the fear the small medallion belonging to the witcher brought to him. What he feared more was not this silly magical trinket, but what the witcher would do when he woke up and took the pendant in his hands. Then he easily would discover the truth and Loki wondered if the witcher would use his beautiful silver sword or maybe ordinary Mahakaman steel would be just enough to slay the monster within the wizard.

 

*

 

“Do not look at me like that.” 

Loki turned to Fenrir, who was accompanying him, and he continued quietly.

“It is for my own good and yours if you want us to stay here. The witcher is going to awaken very soon.”

They both were standing on the frozen depths far away from the tower, in the place where the wetlands became the swamps.

“Truly,” sighed Loki, when the wolf barked at him like he understood what his master is doing and why. “I am going to reciprocate him.”

Loki actually didn't see why he should repay the witcher anything. He was the one who treated him for two weeks, dressed his wounds, giving him medicine and sponge baths, so the man owned him a lot. Normally, he would demand a small fortune for treatments like those. Yet, it wasn't a normal situation and something was telling him it would never be. 

He had arrived at his decision very quickly when he had been lying on his bed at night, all sweaty and scared that it had been the Wild Hunt who came for him. He had took fate in his hands again and left the tower only when the sun had set high enough to be visible just above the tops of the surrounding trees. He had known that it would be a long and tiresome - and not safe - way to a place where the waters were dark and deep, and the path leading to them could easily lead to death.

Now he was standing in this place with Fenrir at his side, acting like the speechless pricks of conscience.

Loki pulled off the glove from his left hand. He raised his bare hand at hip height and placed it above the surface of water covered with thick layer of ice. Slowly moving his fingers, he murmured an incantation. 

The ice started creaking loudly, bulged suddenly and cracked, opening access to water, now boiling and churning.

 

He sighed calmly. He did know what had to be done. He made this decision while lying sleeplessly on the bed and he'd been trying to quiet down all the thoughts that had been running through his mind. He had no other choice. 

He slipped his hand, with a glove on, into the pocket hidden in the fur coat and took out of it the Witcher's pendant. The magic vibrated in the air and the rattling medallion scuffled on the long chain. Loki threw it away with disgust. The only sound he heard was a silent splash when the artefact had been drowning in the gushes of water. It gurgled loudly. Reproach-like. He pursed his lips. He had done everything that he had to, in order to survive. Eventually, he waved his hand at Fenrir and turned around just to walk away. 

 

*

 

The whole world was a singular screaming pain. 

Sometimes he'd been waking up but he couldn't open his eyes. He didn't feel his body at all and once again, the darkness was holding out its arms for him. He could remember neither where he'd been, nor what'd been happening to him. 

He fought fiercely with the darkness, but each and every time he was failing and the oblivion was claiming him once again. Stuck somewhere between death and existence, he had decided to not give up, not to lose again, but to win. This was the day when he finally opened his eyes, yet the world was fuzzy, blurred and distant. He could smell something herbal surrounding him, mint maybe. Mint and musk mixed together. He could barely hear the muffled sound calling his name.

The light before his eyes moved, replaced by a silhouette the darkness assumed for him. Its cold clutches touched his burning forehead and cheeks, ready to take him away once more. He wanted to object, to cry in anger, but he couldn't make a sound, so he reached with his hand, pushing with all the reflexes that were left in him, and caught the oblivion firmly by its throat and started to choke it in a tight grip. He couldn't let go, fighting as ferociously as he was able to. 

But he lost once again, when freezing struck him and he fell down into darkness's embrace, sinking into a/the timeless void.

 

Loki got up with difficulty from the floor, still a little bit shaky. Finally he managed to take a deep breath. His neck was burning with pain after this unexpected attack. The witcher caught him by surprise.

The wizard had dropped by his patient just for a moment to check on him, like he used to do every morning. To his great surprise the witcher had been lying with his eyes open, although he hadn't be very much awake, because he hadn't reacted, even when Loki had bent over him.

“Stridr? Can you hear me?” he remembered asking the man. After that he had touched his forehead.

He wasn't fully aware what had happened later. Suddenly the witcher's arm had sprung out from under the cover, as some venomous snake, and had caught him, clenching strongly on his throat.

He had acted involuntarily. With one hand he had tried to open the fingers which were choking him, and with the other, clenched as fist, he had whacked the witcher on the head.

The man had let him go and fallen heavily on the bed and Loki had found himself on the floor, where he was lying for a little while, staring at wooden beam-supported ceiling.

He came around eventually and sat up, still feeling dizzy and shocked. He had to admit that it was a good sign. The witcher was waking up, but truly Loki didn't expect the fighter to try and kill him still in his sleep. A little weak in his legs, he moved closer to the bed. He quickly checked the witcher's pulse and moved away even quicker. He breathed with relief, seeing the man's chest moving up and down under the fur he was covered with.

He rose himself and left the witcher in peace.

 

*

 

Bright sunbeams got into the small room through the slits in the shutters. He blinked a few times and narrowed his still delicate eyes when the sunlight reached his face. He was lying on his back motionless, observing golden shimmers dancing on the white ceiling. 

He couldn't exactly recollect what had happened to him, only some flashes of memories were going through his head. The darkness of an old forest, which hadn't smelt like wood or wet litter. No, it had been something totally different. He had been wading through some dirty, stinky slush. A dungeon maybe? Then he could remember. The storm drain where some people gone missing. He had stopped by in the town to get some rest for him and Jarvis, and then had got himself some lousy job in the stinky sewers. The monster had attacked by surprise. It couldn't have happened, but it had and now he was lying down in some strange place, too weak to simply move even an arm.

He had woken and fallen into sleep many times in the past few days, not knowing nor remembering much, except maybe the green-eyed shadow, appearing sometimes before his eyes, smelling like herbs and musk. Yet, it had to be one of his many dreams.

He knew, he woke up for good. He couldn't feel the cold presence of the darkness reaching for him, lurking in the corners of his mind.

He closed his eyes for a moment. The pain was mild at the moment, so he could concentrate on his body. Someone had taken care of him in very professional way. He could feel it...

Something, probably a door, creaked loudly, shaking him out of his thoughts. He squeezed his eyelids and didn't move, pretending he was still unconscious.

The room filled with the familiar scent of fresh mint. Light footsteps reverberated on the wooden floor.

“It is good to see you awaken, witcher.” The husky, yet modulated voice sounded very close to him.

It made him open his eyes to see the owner of the voice.

“I thought so,” the dark haired man standing next to the bed said calmly. “How do you feel, witcher?”

“The name... is Stark,” he spoke with a hoarse voice, not expecting it would be so difficult. He coughed and tried to sit up. He didn't want to lie down like a baby in front of some stranger. 

Loki caught the witcher by the arm and forced him to stay still on the bed, but the man pushed his hand away.

“I can do it,” grunted Stark, pulling himself up onto his elbows. He went pale and beads of sweats appeared on his forehead, but finally he managed to sit leaning against the wall. “So, you are who exactly?”

“My name is Loki,” the wizard introduced himself, looking at his patient attentively. “And you did not answer my question. How do you feel?”

“I live,” he replied briefly, trying not to slip down on the bed. It was really hard for him to maintain the sitting position. The dizziness was overwhelming. He hadn’t felt so weak in a very long time.

“True,” spoke Loki calmly. “However I advise you strongly against moving or leaving the bed, at least for now.”

The tone of his voice brooked no argument and it made the fighter even angrier. For this stranger telling him what to do and for himself being unable to do anything right now, because of his own stupidity while hunting in the sewers. He wasn't careful enough and had acted like some rookie.

“And who are you to order me like that, huh?” he burst and coughed violently.

“I am the one who dressed your wounds, the one who took care for you for a few weeks when you were unconscious,” snapped Loki. His pupils became more and more vivid green and Stark could smell ozone in the air. And he understood.

“So do not argue with me on this topic,” continued wizard while his eyes calmed down and his body relaxed. “I shall bring you some fare. You need to take medicine to build up your strength again.”

Stark dared to breathe again only when the man turned and left. How in hell did he find himself under the care of some wizard? He cursed passionately under his breath, mostly in dwarvish. He hated all wizards. Regardless the sex or race, they all were treacherous, lying spawns of bitches. He had never met any who was honest, reliable or truthful. They all loved themselves and desired money or power, or both. The worst type of scum.

He sighed loudly, ignoring a stabbing pain in the chest. He had to leave this place as fast as possible. He couldn't let some shitty mage exploit him in a tricky manner and just for treating his wounds. He expected that this dark-haired fucker would want something in return as they all always wanted. Damn wizards...

 

*

 

Taking care of the awake yet still weak witcher was even more tiring than when he was unconscious. Stark turned out to be one stubborn man, refusing to do anything, especially when Loki told him so. The wizard was very patient this time and didn't lose control over his powers.

When Loki came back to Stark the day after he had woken up, the fighter was sitting in his bed, trying to get up on his legs.

“Truly, you must have fallen on your head in childhood,” sighed Loki. He put a tray with a bowl and mug on the table, and after that he hurried to push the witcher back to bed.

“Don't touch me!” Stark tried to defy him, but failed. Unwilling, he gave up and leaned against the wall. “What poison have you brought me today?”

The mage rolled his eyes.

“It is oatmeal with blueberries.” He brought the bowl to the witcher. “Do you want me to—”

“No!”

Without saying a single word Loki gave him the dish and a wooden spoon.

“Enjoy.” He sat down on the stool and watched the man with narrowed eyes.

Stark started to eat slowly. He was very hungry after refusing the meal the day before, so he put away the fare till the last drop and looked wistfully into the bowl.

“I shall bring you more after you have taken the medicine.” Loki passed him the mug, but the witcher pushed it away.

“I have my own potions. Bring me my chest,” said Stark so impolitely, it made the wizard grimaced. He knew he had to be calm and tolerant.

“The one with the carving saying 'Stridr'?” He stood up and came to the table where the equipment was lying.

Stark raised his eyebrow and smirked.

“Well, well,” he murmured under his breath. “The wizard who knows the vile alphabet of Mahakam. That's new.”

Loki froze in one spot, hearing this. His silent gasp didn't escape the witcher's attention.

“You tried a little too much,” said the fighter, amused by the fact he had surprised Loki. “I would guess that sooner or later... wizard.”

The mage breathed deeply and turned, putting on a neutral look. His profession was revealed a little too fast, but he knew he wouldn't be able to hide much longer anyway.

“Are you trying to offend me by calling me who I am?” He smirked and came to the bed, carrying the case. He put it on the witcher's lap.

Stark imitated his ironic smile and unlocked the box, touching random places on its lid and sides.

“Oh no, I am offending you by calling you what you are,” he said, turning the box over in his hands. “A scum, possibly, and a liar for sure. You are all the same.” He didn't need to raise his head to know that the mage was a little tetchy after what he said. He didn't care. He focused on the case. It seemed that none had tried to get inside, even the wizard. How noble of him.

Finally the lock clicked and the chest opened, showing rather not what they both expected. Stark blinked and mumbled incoherently under his breath.

“What the hell!” he snarled, showing the mage broken crystal and glass vials with remains of what could be elixirs and specifics, now mixed together into a smelly muck.

Loki shrugged.

“Do not look at me,” he said. “I might be a wizard and a liar, and a scum, but I take care of my patients and their equipment.”

“Yeah, sure.” 

“Yes, now drink your medicine and get ready. Your dressing needs to be changed.”

 

*

 

 

“I can do it myself!”

“And do you remember the last two times?”

There had been constant rows shaking up the tower for the past week. Stark was short-tempered and had quite a nasty character, especially showing when the witcher was struggling with huge pain. Loki had the feeling that their quarrels could be heard at the edge of the swamp. It was very hard for him to stay calm when the fighter opposed everything, only to irritate him.

“Let me just take you to the tub,” he suggested, standing over Stark and watching as he was trying to get up from the edge of the bed. He offered the witcher a helping hand, but the man just pushed it away.

“I'll do it myself.” 

Stark indeed rose to his feet from the bed with difficulty. It took him some time to straighten up and he still needed to lean on the nearby chair. He made for the kitchen, leaning on furniture, the wall and finally a door frame, but he reached his destination, where in front of a hearth stood a wooden tub full of hot, steaming water.

Loki walked behind the witcher slowly, step by step, looking after him to help if necessary.

“Myself as in alone,” murmured the fighter. “In solitude. Why can’t you understand it, huh?”

“Fine. Fine. Do what you want,” sighed Loki and withdrew to the next chamber, but he didn't plan to leave the man unguarded.

When the wizard disappeared behind the door, Stark heaved a sigh of relief and started undressing slowly, ignoring an intolerable humming inside of his head which heralded an approaching wave of pain. He regretted that he had refused the mage's painkilling concoction when he had offered him the mixture.

He managed to take off his pants and luckily he even didn't have to stoop down. 

“You should remove the bandages first, otherwise they’ll get soaked and all my work will be wasted,” he heard as soon as he touched the rim of the tub. 

The witcher turned his head, grimacing a little. Loki stood in the doorway, leaning on the frame and watching him with an annoyingly calm smile.

“I have seen you naked many times, Stridr, so do not make that face,” murmured the wizard with narrowed eyes.

“Fuck off!”

Loki rolled his eyes, but listened to him and left once again.

Stark breathed deeply. He really wanted to leave this place. Loki made him angry all the time, with his neutral look, with his stupid, deep voice and princely manners. He wished he could punch him in this handsome, pale face. Just a few more days and he would be happily far away from the mage and his tower.

He touched the surface of the water, which surprisingly was still hot. The wizard definitely had cast some spell on the tub. Sometimes magic was useful, but he wasn't planning to tell Loki that.

He gathered his strength, leant on the rim and lifted his body up. A spasm of pain went through his body, creeping on his spine to the neck.

“Oh, fuck,” he groaned as quiet as he could. He didn't need the wizard breathing all over his head.

He tried once again to slipp into the water, but the pain get even worse.

“Wizard,” he said, counting on the man still being there, in the next room. “Oi... wizard... Loki!”

“Yes?” The raven-black head emerged from behind the door.

“I... I need your help.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr: [why-so-mischievous.tumblr.com](http://why-so-mischievous.tumblr.com)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has been called many names: Stark, Stridr, Ia'rainn Dh'oine – The Man of Iron. He was a witcher, the highly skilled monster killer. Even though he was the very well trained expert, sometimes he got injured during his hunts. This time he found himself under the care of intriguing, raven-haired man.  
> That is how he threw in his lot with the sorcerer who had mysterious yet unsettling past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the illustrations you'll find here: [[link]](http://allantieeart.tumblr.com/post/101540959910/my-illustrations-for-this-years-frostironbang)

_The 28_ _th_ _day of Imbolc, 1267_

 

_The Imbolc is almost over. The winter has come to an end and the spring equinox is close. I can feel it in the air around me and in the soil under my feet. Everything is coming back to live. Even plants in my winter garden know it is spring time. They all grow and bloom so fast, only a few day ago I made new potions for the witcher to replace the contents from damaged vials. I wanted to examine them, but Stark is secretive about recipes for witcher's elixir. He is a one stubborn man. He insisted on accompany me to my garden and then laboratory, and made all mixtures by himself. I have to admit that it was quite impressive. He worked so quick with focus I have observed only in the greatest potion master. It might be a admirable sight, yet still I detest his attitude. For some reason he hates me and opposes me with everything I do for him. It is even worse since he has regained his strength enough to get out of the bed, walk and bath by himself. I know ho much he wants to leave this place. He tries to trick me into believing his feeling fine, but I can see how fast he tires while climbing the stairs. That is why I..._

 

A loud knocking at the door disrupted his focus and the flow of thoughts. A huge blot of dark green ink bloomed right in the middle of sentence which Loki hadn't had chance to finish. He waved his fingers and the stain disappeared immediately.

The knocking repeated insistently, but he decided to ignore them. He dipped the tip of the quill in the inkwell and returned to his notes.

“Wizard... Oi!” he heard even before he gathered his thoughts. “Loki! I know you're there, so open up!” 

The banging at to door became too aggressive, so the mage just let them to open. The witcher rushed into the chamber breathless.

“You. Seriously,” he panted heavily. “Stop hiding from me.”

Loki closed his journal with a particular care and turned to Stark.

“It is good that this time you decided to knock, Stridr.” The wizard stood up, smiling only with corners of his mouth.

“Where are my things?” asked Stark frowning angrily. “There were still on the table this morning.”

Loki glanced at him a little worried. He had a slight idea why the fighter would like to have the swords back.

“Why do you need them?” he inquired pursing his lips. “You are not thinking about leaving just yet, are you? Because if you are—”

“Oh, quit it, will ya?” snapped Stark. “I am not leaving at this very moment. I need to take care of my swords before they'll totally rust.”

He didn't believe the witcher at all. He of all people could recognize the lie as he had said them plenty in his whole, long life.

“Yes,” he said slowly, with very serious look on his face. He wasn't angry, just concerned. He didn't like his work to get wasted and treating the fighter had consumed a lot of time, his private resources and magic. “I shall not take your word for that.” He came closer to Stridr. “Listen to me now. You are not fit enough to travel alone. Not yet. Your body is still healing. I shall give you your belongings back, but I also forbid you to leave the tower.”

“Like you could forbid me anything,” mumble Stark feeling strangely uncomfortable seeing how the Loki's neutral expression was clouding over in anger. 

Yet the wizard said nothing, just showed the witcher a shelf next to the window. All the equipment was there, except the chest.

Stark hummed under his breath.

“Wait.” He looked at Loki. “Where's my medallion?”

The wizard wrinkled his nose.

“A medallion?” he asked shaking his head. 

“Yeah, this big.” The fighter waved his hands trying to depict the size of the pendant. “Silver wolf's head on the chain. It's the symbol of my trade. I need it.” He raked through a saddlebag and cursed.

Loki was amazed by Stark's appreciation for dwarvish language and the way he was using it

“I have not seen anything like,” he said observing witcher's struggle with his things. “It is possible that it was stolen by one of the thugs that brought you here.” 

“Crap, maybe I lost it in the sewers...”

“I do apologize. I could make sure that all of your things were returned,” said Loki quietly, not feeling sorry at all. He would do everything for his own survival and throwing away some medallion was one of the least evil or unforgivable deeds he had ever made in his life.

Stark took his swords very gently in the arm.

“Promise me, you shall stay,” said Loki trying to keep his calm, but it was difficult with the patient like this man.

“Whatever, wizard.”

 

When Stark left, Loki just sat down by the desk.

 

_...I wanted to keep his equipment hidden from him,_ he continued the journal entry. _Yet, I returned them to him. I know he lied to me about not leaving, but I cannot force him to stay either. He is going to do what he has planned. It shall be something unwise, but it is his choice. I shall not protect some who does not want it. If he leaves, he probably shall die somewhere in the swamp._

 

_*_

 

The night was frosty.

Stark pulled the hood to hide his face from gust of the cold air. He made a few steps and looked up. Loki must have been asleep, because his window was dark. That's even better. At least he wouldn't stop him .

The golden crescent rising steadily over the leafless treetops lit his way to the stable. He moved silently, creeping on the slippery stones. He felt slow and heavy, fighting with his own, still-stiff body. He needed to leave, to ride as far away as he could. Loki pretended that he cared, but all wizards had their secret agendas, mysteries, so he was probably hiding something too. He was surprised that the mage hadn't vivisected him when he’dd had his chance. He had seen it in the black-haired man's eyes that he was scared. Was it his being a witcher or maybe something - or someone - else? A proud wizard like Loki just wouldn't hide in some old tower surrounded by swamps and woods, so far from civilization. It was odd enough to make Stark want to leave even faster.

He entered the wooden lean-to where in the stalls two horses were resting. The black one, which Loki was calling Sleipnir, slept stretched on the floor, but Jarvis raised his head and pricked him, seeing the witcher.

“Hey budd,” whispered Stark, and opened the stall. “Come on. We're leaving.”

The dun wasn't easy to cooperate, but this time he came to his owner without sulking. Stridr saddled him up. He didn't remember the leather seat to be so heavy and cumbersome. After a short while of grappling with bags and swords, he led his mount out of the stable.

Stark's hand shook a little when he grasped the reins. He took a deep breath and got up on the horse’s back. He couldn't feel anything. Loki's painkillers worked miraculously well and he had taken a double dose, but he needed more. He reached into the pocket under his coat, pulling out a small vial made from smoked glass and drunk its content with one sip. The White Gull wouldn't harm him. It had helped him a lot in the past and he was hoping that its mild hallucinogenic effect would let him survive the night in the saddle.

“Jarv, giddy-up, buddy.” He drove the horse without looking back. 

 

A narrow path meandered between the woods, disappearing somewhere in the swamp. The tree branches looked like skeleton arms trying to reach him, to pull him down, to drown him in the cold water. Something huge and hungry howled in the distance. 

The witcher usually could see very well in the dark, but this time the road before him blurred and he hadn’t the slightest idea where he was heading. Maybe the stars would show him the right direction. He could only tuck the coat tighter around himself, and looked up, but the wave of nausea attacked him as soon as he felt the throbbing pain in the neck.

“Crap,” he hissed when a low hanging branch hit him.

In the very last moment he managed to catch Jarvis, but the horse's mane slipped from his fingers. 

“Easy, budd,” he tried to calm the mount and still the animal kicked him off the saddle.

The fall wasn't that bad. He rolled over as controlled as he could and bumped many times against the ground and some protruding roots. 

The howling became louder and louder, and finally he could see bright yellow eyes right in front of him, coming closer. 

“Crap,” he whispered feebly. “Oi.. wiza...”

And then there was nothing.

 

*

 

Loki wasn't sure what woke him first. Was it just another nightmare full of blood and falling or maybe long, sad wailing outside the window?

He rubbed tender eyes and eventually opened them, feeling dazed. The candle on the bedside table was small, yet still burning, so it meant the morning was far off. He squeezed his eyelids tightly and had let his thoughts drift away when loud howling in front of the tower brought him round and made him start. He sat up quickly. That certainly wasn't a dream. It was real and he knew this whine quite well. 

He didn't wait, just got up and wrapped his fur coat around himself. 

“Stridr?” he called out aloud, leaving his room. “Did you hear that?”

The witcher didn't answer and Loki quickly found out why. The chamber next to the kitchen was empty. The bed seemed to be untouched. The sword and the rest of the equipment also had disappeared. The mage was sure that if he went and checked the stable, Jarvis’s stall would be abandoned. 

“Damn,” he murmured, shaking his head. 

The witcher hadn't listened to him, of course. What else had he expected from this foolish, stubborn man? Why did he even care? One less burden on his shoulders. Yet... it would be a shame to find Stark dead in some ditch, especially after all the care and work he had put into healing him.

Barking and growling shook Loki out from his gloomy thoughts, but it was pitiful squealing that made him open the door. 

Fenrir ran inside, almost knocking him over. He caught the wolf and held him firmly and after a short moment of struggling he was able to calm his companion.

“What is wrong?” he asked, stroking the wolf's head.

The animal couldn't answer him, so he just grabbed the wizard’s sleeve with his teeth and pulled him to the exit.

“I shall come, but not like this.” 

He made his garment slowly appear to cover his bare skin, and then followed the wolf into the night.

 

Loki walked fast and steadily to keep the wolf in view. The small ball of light, circling behind his head, illuminated the path. At this very moment he regretted that he had left his warm bed. It might be nothing, but he remembered the night they had saved Pietro's sister thanks to Fenrir and since then he had trusted wolf's instinct a little more.

The animal stopped right in front of the clearing and turned his head to the wizard.

“Is it here?” murmured Loki and looked around. “Oh!”

On the crossroad he found Stark. The witcher was lying on his back and staring at the night sky. He was quite alive, maybe a little dazed. 

“You... foolish oaf!” snapped the mage.

Stridr twitched and turned to face him.

“Aw... Lokes,” he mumbled drunkenly. “You know... I like your eyes... they're so... glowy? Ah no... shiny, that's the word... Are they made from moonlight or what...” 

“I cannot believe this,” sighed Loki and tried to lift him gently. Hopefully Stark hadn't sustained any new injuries, but it was neither the time nor place to check it.

The mage described a circle with a free hand, murmuring the spell under his breath. The golden shimmering mist followed his palm and formed a brightly glistening disc right in front of them. He pushed Stridr through the portal and jumped into it after him.

 

*

 

Stark sat up on the bed right away when Loki entered the room. The wizard moved so quietly, even his clothes didn't rustle.

“Mornin',” he said, observing the wizard bustling around and obstinately ignoring his patient. “So, what are you serving today?”

The mage remained silent. It has been the same for a few days. Loki had brought him back to the tower and helped him detoxify from the mixtures he had taken. It seemed that the White Gull didn’t go smoothly with some painkillers. The wizard had also patched him up again, then forced him to stay in bed and had said almost nothing to him since then.

“Oi, wizard,” he murmured when Loki put a bowl with soup under his nose. “So what's the weather? Is it warmer already?”

He didn't get any answer, so he just grabbed the wizard's fingers when he handed him a spoon.

“Hey, talk to me... wizard. Loki. Lokes!” He shook the mage's hand gently with every spoken word. “Fine. You don't want to talk, then just look at me, at least. Have you found Jarvis? He’s a smart stud, but you know... what if a pack of wolves got him or—”

“Your horse is just fine. Actually he might be more intelligent than you. He came back all by himself, so do not get so overexcited. Finish your fare and lie down.” That was probably the longest sentence that Loki had spoken lately. Most of the time he simply ignored Stark's babbling, sometimes ordering him around.

Stridr moved closer, still holding the wizard's hand.

“Right, fine. I know. You said that I shouldn't have, but I did. And it's silly and foolish, not wise, you choose.” Loki's eyes, becoming a more and more vivid green, made him flounder and jabber, and he couldn't stop. “What I'm saying... it wasn't good idea, so I...”

“For Seidr's sake. If I hear one 'I' coming from your mouth, I shall smack you,” murmured Loki, annoyed, and took his hand out of the witcher's grip.

“But I—” Stark went quiet, seeing how the mage was raising his hand. He hadn't thought that he would miss the calm way Loki usually behaved. He preferred him polite and smiling like a parent at the foolish deeds of his child. Even a simple sneer would be better than this cold reproachful look in grayish-green eyes.

But Loki just bopped him gently on the forehead.

“I accept your apologies, Stridr, so stop talking,” he said dryly.

“It's not what... What? I didn't. Fine, I'm done... just,” Stark murmured under his breath. “Did you find my equipment?”

The wizard nodded.

“Because I should start my training, maybe you could give me my swords back?” added the witcher.

“No,” replied Loki shortly. “You betrayed my trust once, so your weapon shall stay in my keep.”

“But I need to train!”

“So use a stick to do it!” Loki ended this conversation quite rudely, leaving Stridr all alone, just with his dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr: [why-so-mischievous.tumblr.com](http://why-so-mischievous.tumblr.com)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He has been called many names: Stark, Stridr, Ia'rainn Dh'oine – The Man of Iron. He was a witcher, the highly skilled monster killer. Even though he was the very well trained expert, sometimes he got injured during his hunts. This time he found himself under the care of intriguing, raven-haired man.  
> That is how he threw in his lot with the sorcerer who had mysterious yet unsettling past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the illustrations you'll find here: [[link]](http://allantieeart.tumblr.com/post/101540959910/my-illustrations-for-this-years-frostironbang)

_The 2_ _nd_ _day of Birke, 1267_

 

_The weather has improved at last! I did not realize how much I have been missing the warmth of the spring sun. This morning the rain stopped, the wind quietened, and the witch... Stridr dealt with small flood in the basement and rescued my garden from devastation. I did not suspect him to be so handy, yet he took care of all the winter damages and replaced a broken axle in the well. That was quite impressive. I have found a way to repay him for all the help. There is a possibility I could make a new medallion. I have a crystal which is big enough, and the only thing I need to do is just to cut it and cast a spell. It is going to take some time, but I hope to finish it before he shall decide to leave._

_The thought... the thought of him leaving now is waking in me this strange unrest. It feels good to have the companion with whom I can talk and who would reply. Stridr turned my world upside down a little, but he cannot know about it._

_I would also regret to lose such a good chess partner. Playing with myself bored me long time ago, but Stridr brought the set from the basement and insisted on playing. That game was unexpected and amusing. I have never met someone who would be that gifted, quick thinking tactician and so impatient at the same time._

_He told me that he wanted to train his body and mind. Yes..._

 

Loki looked up from his journal. Today he has decided to sit closer to the window and take a closer look at the witcher training in the small courtyard.

Few days ago Stridr had brought a thick branch and whittled it with a knife. Since then, he has been spending every morning till noon, exercising.

The wizard was waking up earlier only to observe this splendid spectacle. He has got to know Stark's body very well already, but now it was a new kind of pleasure. The muscles moving under tanned skin. Long, greying hair following every witcher's turn, every pirouette, every thrust. Drops of sweat gleaming in the rays of sun. Stridr resembled a dancer, a very dangerous one.

The thought of him in a real fight, in the battle or among the sheets was thrilling and Loki smiled, losing himself in very pleasant dreams.

 

_*_

 

The touch of crisp morning air on the bare skin felt so good. Stark moved faster jumping on slabs covering the yard, skipping quick from one to another. He chose to step only on the white stones, so when he trod on the black accidentally, he was making a small lunge.

He thought he would never get out of the bed, but it was wizard who had forced him to move. Loki sometimes acted like he didn't care, but he knew better. He worried enough to woke up earlier and watch him exercise.

The witcher turned, putting the training stick behind his back and looked up. The mage was there, sitting by the window. Stridr admired the pensive look on his face and smiled when Loki brushed his black locks off the beautifully vaulted forehead.

He pulled out his wooden weapon making short strokes, then a few light steps and a thrust. Now he was standing right in front of the tower and the wizard's window.

“Oi!” he called loudly to rose the mage from his thoughts. “Lokes!”

When Loki shook his head and glanced at him frowning a little, he raised his stick up like a sword and saluted with broad, disarming grin. As the wizard moved back, disappearing suddenly, Stridr's smile became even wider, because it looked like his spectator has just fell off the chair.

 

*

 

“Soo, did you fall off the chair?” Stark tried not to smile, but it was pretty hard to stay serious with Loki's face turning all red.

“I certainly did not,” murmured the wizard tidying up his dark green, woolen coat and pulling on a hood firmly over his eyes. Since the day before Stridr has been nagging him about that morning practice. It was irritating and humiliating, and he would never said the truth to the witcher.

“Fine, fine, but I know you'll tell me eventually,” murmured the fighter under his breath and turned his head to Loki. “Where are we going exactly?”

The wizard glanced at him, but focused mostly on the road in front of him. Traveling across swamps and old woods could be dangerous even in the daylight.

“To the village on the edge of the forest,” he replied, reining in Sleipnir. “I told you that. You did not listen again.”

“It is a custom,” continued Loki a little dryly. “I visit them once a month. I missed last time, because I had certain someone to take care of.”

“Sorry?” Stark shrugged. “You know, it's just so unusual for a wizard to help some peasants.”

He watched Loki from the corner of his eye. The mage just shook his head and quickly hid his hair escaping from under the cowl. He was acting strange sometimes, like he would like to say something, but couldn't or wanted to. Stridr still thought that this man has been hiding some secretes, that probably wouldn't appeal to him. He had never asked about them though, and wouldn't dare to do it now either, despite some kind of connection which certainly appeared between them. He could've felt it and and so did Lokes. He really wanted to trust him a little more, but only on condition that Loki was honest with him, not like now. But maybe that whole mistrust was nothing else than just his own bad feeling related to lying wizards.

“You do not like us, do you not?”

“Huh? Wha—?” Loki's voice bursted on his thoughts.

“I am asking about the wizards. You seem to hate them,” repeated Loki rolling up his eyes.

“Well,” muttered the witcher. “Fine. It's not hate, I just don't trust you... I mean wizard. I don't trust all of them. Erm, yeah, I've never met any trustworthy mage. Since the beginning of my career. Even the last time, my accident was the wizard's fault. Mostly.”

Loki looked at him inquiringly and Stark continued.

“I was hired by an alderman of a small town in Kaedwen. I had worked for him before, so I trusted him. Something, some creature killed a few workers next to the old storm drain. There was a wizard at the alderman's service, who determined it must have been a kikimore and wanted it to be killed so that he could examine the creature. At that time I've thought that I shouldn't give up double pay when it's actually given to me on a silver plater. But the kikimores are ugly sons of the bitches, and dangerous too. Very fast,” he sighed. “I was stupid enough to take the mage with me. He might have been right about the monster, but unfortunately we have found out that it was the whole hive of them. That little shit split. The rest you've probably worked out. I was lucky that the alderman sent someone after me.”

Loki grimaced. He could understand why Stridr didn't trust members of the Guild. Neither in Ban Ard, nor on Thanedd Island were teaching bravery or courage. All the wizards knew they had to count only on themselves, which mostly meant that the escape was the easiest way to survive.

“Not all of us are like that,” he spoke quietly. He didn't thought about anyone specific at first, but this talk brought back memories about his mother and her teaching. “Not all...”

“Hey, I know that. It's just something I've been taught painfully.” Stark rode up closer and patter him on the arm with a smile. “You're different.”

The wizard blinked quickly and pursed his lips not to let a sigh to escape his lips. He geed up the horse a little, so Stridr couldn't see a blush on his face. It's been ages since he'd heard this sentence spoken with good intention and not as an insult.

“Tell me more about your last hunt,” said Loki to change the topic when they pulled with each other. “Did you use you silver blade on kikimore?”

“The Heartbreaker? Oh, no, no.” The witcher beamed. “Simple steel works just fine.”

They road in silence for a little while. Loki stuck his face out to the sun and breathed deeply.

“So, why the Heartbreaker?” he asked eventually. He was wondering long enough about this name. “It is quite unusual.”

“It's an old joke,” murmured Stark smiling to his thoughts. “I used to know this dwarf. She's a true smith master. I was her apprentice for a short while and she named this sword. She liked to joke that I broke her heart by being a human.”

Loki started to laugh and quickly covered his mouth with hand, but still was shaking a little.

Stark hasdn't heard him laughing before. For a little while he looked younger. And even more handsome. He was staring at the mage a little too long and almost got hit in the face with a tree branch.

“Ouch! Not again!”

“You need to be more careful. It would be a shame if you had your face scared,” said Loki smirking.

“Darling, it's my job to lead a life full of danger,” joked Stridr. “Speaking of... Do you know if there's a work for me somewhere in the neighborhood? I can't just chop the wood and groom horses.”

“I do not believe so. It is a calm place, even if everyone tells the swamp is haunted, is is not true,” claimed the wizard shrugging. “Yet, you can ask in the village if they need any of your professional skills. We are almost there.”

He waved his hand showing his companion a clearing at the edge of the forest. They both could see smoke coming from the chimneys in the distance.

 

*

 

The dog's barking have welcomed them. Jarvis snorted unhappy, so Stark need to calm him down. Loki's horse just strode proudly and scared mutts with one mighty thump. His loud neighing alarmed people in the village.

Loki dismounted the horse gracefully and lead the animal by the reins to the center of the hamlet. The witcher followed his steps looking around. The place seemed to be very peaceful, which was very strange. He knew that not far from here armies were marching and soldiers were fighting, but mostly raiding villages like this one. Then he noticed. On every house, on beams over the doorways, there were small sigils carved. Complicated magical symbols circled by runes. A simple, yet powerful protective spell. Usually he would sensed it right away, but without his medallion it wasn't that obvious.

He glanced at wizard, greeting with a elderly, but strong looking man, probably, the leader of the village. He came closer wondering if those sigilis were Loki's feats. Actually it had to be him, but he didn't suspected the mage to know such a powerful magic. He thought about him as of mediocre sorcerer, more in healer type. He concealed his talents very well.

“You aren't dead!” He heard a voice of a young lad behind, so he turned in a blink of an eye. “Woah! And you're so fast!”

Ashen haired boy was standing in front of him and goggling

“And who are you?” asked Stridr with narrowed eyes.

“I'm Pietro and mama said you're a witcher. Are you?” he's been babbling quickly, dropping the endings of the words.

“Yeah, bu—”

“So neat!” Pietro didn't let him get a word in edgeways and went around him. “But where are the swords? Witcher should have like two. So?”

“You should ask Lokes,” replied Stark thinking. “You can go and talk—” The boy was gone before he's even finished the sentence. “— to him. Come and tell me!” he shouted after him.

He sighed and went to check after Loki, who was still sitting with the leader in front on a bench outside. Next to the wizard's leg dark haired girl perched and was listening to his every word.

The witcher came closer.

“ —I truly hope the medicine will help your wife,” said Loki calmly.

“I'm grateful, Master.” The man nodded. “First you helped Wanda, now my dear Anya.”

“It is my pleasure. You, my friend, lent me your helping hand many times,” replied the wizard and Stark was a little amazed how polite and friendly he was. “You are most welcome to come for any help, as always. If anything happens, send Pietro.” He stood up. “I shall try to do what is in my power.”

The elder man got up with help of the dark haired girl.

“Master, will you come back soon?” she asked imitating the way Loki was always speaking.

“Wanda, deary, of course,” the mage smiled warmly. “After Belleteyn celebration, as I promised.”

He said his goodbye and joined Stark.

“Are you ready to go back?” He looked at the fighter, raising his eyebrow. “What is it?”

“They like you,” replied Stridr before he thought. “What is about this girl? I feel the vibe.”

“She is something, is she not?” murmured Loki and secured packages with food the villagers had gave them. “She is bright. She could be a powerful sorceress, but after what happened in Aretuza, I do not think it is safe to send her there. I teach her myself, but it is still not enough. Maybe I should find her a real teacher.”

The wizard waved to the villagers and got on the horseback.

They left quickly to make it to the tower before the sunset.

 

*

 

The loud clang of metal and stream of curses in many different languages, tore Stark away from a book he had stolen from Loki's library. It was late in the night and he thought that the wizard has been long asleep, but when he looked out of his room, he saw him by the kitchen table struggling with something which might be a small telescope. Before it broke.

“Is everything alright, Lokes?” he asked coming closer. The floor under his bare feet was cold, so he sat down next to the mage.

“Did I wake you?” sighed Loki. “I am sorry.”

“It's fine. Do you need help with this?” He took the device even without an assent and examined it. “The lenses aren't cracked. If you have tools, I'll deal with it quickly.”

The wizard nodded and passed him a small case.

“So, what were you planning to do?” He efficiently took the telescope to pieces and started assembled it anew.

“Tonight sky is perfect for the observation. There is the new moon, so I though I could work on my map of the night sky,” muttered Loki upset on himself, clenching fingers on the bridge of his nose.

“I've almost finished,” Stridr grinned reassuringly. “You can still go and watch the sky. It has to be pretty in here?”

The wizard returned the smile.

“Yes. The night sky here is truly beautiful and unpolluted,” he murmured. “My people have this one, special word for it. The Stjerneklart, where the night is so dark and quiet with the view so clear, that you are able to see all the stars. People in your cities had forgotten about it and polluted the world with unnecessary lights. No one cares. Everyone is so afraid and superstitious, but does not care about the night sky anymore.”

Stark saw something in Loki's eyes. The sadness. Was is the longing after something he had lost? Or someone? He felt he needed to say something funny, something to cheer him up a little.

“You know,” he started, passing the telescope to the mage, now fixed and in one piece. “Also dwarves know it. They call it 'starlit' and say it only really matters after a long and dangerous shift underground. The true beauty of the night sky, full of the clear air.”

Loki touched the witcher's wrist.

“Thank you, Stridr,” he spoke. “You seem to know a lot about the dwarves. Why is that?” he asked and let the hand go.

Stark didn't expect such a personal question. First, about the Heartbreaker, and now this. It was like the mage wanted to know him better.

“You can say, I was brought by them,” he laughed. “Well, not really. I was a grown man, in my opinion at least. I left Kaer Morhen, our keep, so full of myself. I got my first real job in an old infested mine. And in the end I ended up buried alive under some stones. Dwarvish miner saved me and took to his family. I was so afraid after that,” he broke and winced with disgust. “They let me stay and forced to be apprenticed in the smith. I liked it, even if my master was an old, nasty gaffer.”

He raised his head and saw that Loki was gazing at him.

“Sorry, I'm taking your time,” he sighed. “You'll miss your Stjen-Stjerneklart.”

“Thank you for help.” Loki raised himself and put hand on Stark's arm gently. “You can come with me. If you want, of course. You could tell me more about this master of yours.”

“Yeah, you're much prettier than him.” The witcher winked. “I'll go. Wait for me here, Lokes.”

 

*

 

Stark woke up one morning with the decision taken. He had to leave. The longer he was staying here, in this place, with Loki, the more he was becoming indolent. He's been training, but with every day it was more and more monotonous and wearisome. He wasn't the servant of the mage, he needed real job, suited for his profession and, what's more, he really missed travelling. This day was good, like any other, to do it.

He dressed up quickly and went looking for the wizard.

Loki was working in his cellar garden. He tied his hair up and rolled the sleeves of his shirt up. He looked so focused on his plants, so the witcher decided to talk to him later. He somehow wanted to postpone this conversation, but now it was too late. The wizard turned to him.

“Stridr. Good morrow. Did you sleep well?”

“Well, yeah. Kinda,” he murmured feeling a little guilty. “I... Can we talk?”

“Of course,” replied Loki trimming carefully small tree with dark red leaves.

The fighter stared at the mage's back in silence.

“So, what is it? Have you fallen asleep over there?”

He jumped a little when the wizard patted him on the forehead. He caught his palm, covered with soil, and squeezed lightly.

“I want to leave today. I need my swords,” he said quietly looking Loki in the eyes.

The wizard took his hand swiftly and went back to his plant. It was more than unexpected. He thought that Stridr would stay with him a little longer. Maybe until the Belleteyn. He shook his head.

“I understand,” he said quietly with quivering voice. “Go and prepare Jarivs. I shall join you shortly.”

He waited until the witcher would leave and then grabbed the pot with the tree he was taking up and hurled it onto the wall, growling angrily.

When they met later, Loki had calmed down already. He brought Stark's equipment to the kitchen and put it on the table next to a bundle with a food inside.

The witcher came in ready to set off. He quickly strapped the sword in sheathes to his back and donned the coat Loki gave him.

“I've prepared for you new elixirs,” said the mage with a little cold tone. “I wrote down the instructions and put it in your chest.”

“Yes, thank you.” Stark wanted to come closer, but changed his mind. “You've saved me, Lokes. I could've never been more grateful.”

He didn't know what else could be said. He liked Loki more with every day, but he decided. His life was on the way. He could only live fully, working and fighting. He moved, heading to the door.

“Wait!” Loki grabbed his arm and turned to himself. “I forgot. I made this for you.”

He pulled Stridr to himself closely and put something on his neck. Metal chain jingled and a small medallion hit him gently on the chest.

He glanced at the gift. It was blue crystal precisely cut and set in the silver. When the wizard touched it with his fingers set of runes light up on the surface, forming a triangle

“Oh...”

“It should work for now,” murmured Loki. “Far thee well, Stridr. It was pleasure to meet you.”

He pushed the witcher gently across the threshold and closed the door.

 

Stark looked at the wooden surface blinking, but he understood. Loki didn't want to see him anymore.

He went to the horse waiting for him in the courtyard. He slowly packed his things to the saddlebags.

What was he waiting for? That wizard would stop him and start asking him to stay? He knew him a little already. He was too proud to beg anyone. Nevertheless he wanted it to be truth. Maybe when he would turned, the raven-black haired man would be standing there, waiting for him?

“Oh, fuck it!” he mumbled under his breath and turned anyway.

 

Loki leaned against the door and closed his eyelids tightly. What has he expected? Stridr was too stubborn to change his mind.

He wanted the witcher to stay with him, talk to him, play chess together, even arguing about small things would be just fine. And now he was left alone again.

Maybe he should have stopped him. Even now, he could just open the door and go after him.

“Oh, for Seidr's sake,” he growled angry at himself and grabbed the door handle.

 

They met halfway, thinking they would never see each other.

Stark said nothing when they almost run into one another, just grabbed Loki quickly and pulled the man to himself, putting arms around his waist.

The wizard smiled and kissed him gently.

“Stay,” he murmured against the witcher's lips.

“Yeah, just...” the other man breathed and kissed him back.

It was so much simpler than thousand words.

 

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr: [why-so-mischievous.tumblr.com](http://why-so-mischievous.tumblr.com)


End file.
